


radio sweetheart

by ThePenultimateAvenger



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePenultimateAvenger/pseuds/ThePenultimateAvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddy Newandyke never stood a chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the fic comes from the Elvis Costello song of the same name.

Two days.

Two fuckin' days Freddy waits in his apartment, smoking cigarettes and never straying too far from the phone just in case Nice Guy Eddie or Joe call, just like Holdaway told him to do. He's lounging across his couch in an old pair of sweats, finishing off a can of Spaghetti-Os when two sharp knocks on the door sound through the room, resonating with the anxiety he's felt since he started this job. He shoots up, dropping the spoon into the can and setting it on the table before padding over to the door. He doesn't have time to grab the Beretta from where it's sitting on the counter but he's not exactly expecting anyone dangerous—it's not even eight in the morning, for fuck's sake, and Eddie said he'd _call_. Nobody's supposed to show up at his goddamned apartment.

He sort of wishes he'd grabbed the gun when he opens the door to see Mr. White standing in the hallway, hands in his pockets and a cigarette in his mouth, looking like he owns the place. Out of everyone on this job, White is the one that Freddy knows he needs to keep an eye on. The guy's clearly dangerous but he does a damn good job of acting the part of the gentleman, courteous and polite until the situation calls for something more badass. Beyond that, Freddy hasn't been able to get a very good read on him.

He doesn't open the door more than he has to, keeping an eye on White's movements because the guy could very well be there to do him in. “What the fuck are you doin' here, man? Nice Guy said he'd call me.”

“Eddie's dealin' with something else today so you an' me are gonna stake out the wholesalers instead.” White removes a hand from his pocket so he can take the cigarette from between his lips, shifting his weight from one leg to the other. “You got a problem with that, kid?” He asks, smile teasing at the edges of his mouth.

Freddy only feels slightly more at ease. “No I don't got a problem with that, asshole, I got a problem with people showin' up at my place with no warning.” He smirks in spite of himself. It's a little too easy to fall into amicable banter with this guy, letting his guard down _that much_. “I gotta get changed, I'll be down in ten.” He's not one hundred percent sure that he didn't leave any sensitive materials lying out and he can't take the risk of letting Mr. White in only to have his cover blown because of something stupid like a pay stub or a memo from the station. He's not gonna take any chances.

White lets out a puff of cigarette smoke before stepping back to leave. “Well hurry up, we got shit to do.”

 

**

 

The car is pretty hot, even with both of the front windows rolled down, and Freddy's fingers are restless as he taps a rhythm against his leg. They've been sitting in near silence for the better part of an hour, cigarette smoke swirling around them as they keep their eyes trained on the shopfront.

Holdaway had rambled off a whole list of questions to ask that might help him get some useful information, but Freddy's got a feeling that if he tried any of them on Mr. white, the guy would see right through him.

Out of the blue, White clears his throat, flicking his cigarette butt into the street. “So, you been doin' this type of shit long?”

“And what type of shit would you be referring to?”

“Jobs like this.”

Freddy gives a breathy laugh, eyes sliding over to look at White with a playful sort of smirk. “Wouldn't telling you that information be breaking Joe's rules? I don't wanna be gettin' myself in trouble with the big boss man so early on in the game.” He flicks his ashes into the ashtray, leaning his elbow on the edge of the window. He's been prepared for questions like this since day one but he doesn't want to seem too eager to divulge information about himself. He has to remember to act natural.

“Not unless you go into specifics, no, but I like the way you think. I'm bettin' Joe will, too.” White smiles, eyes crinkling at the edges as he pulls another cigarette from the pack.

The words are practically the promise of a golden ticket, exactly what every undercover cop wants. A surefire way to get in good with the main guy and make it easier to take him down in the end—and it's been pretty clear from the start that Mr. White has some history with Joe Cabot. Freddy's done a pretty good job of getting along with this guy so far, and it might just pay off. “I've only done one other job.” He says after a beat, back story rolling off his tongue like they're facts he's known all his life. “Well, two if you wanna count a convenience store I robbed back in high school. I don't.”

“You ever done any time?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” Freddy chuckles. He gets the feeling like this conversation might be par for the course for guys like White, discussing things they might have in common without getting too personal with it. Or maybe White's just trying to get a better read on him because he looks like a rookie, but either way, it's not an issue. “But to answer your question, no, I've never done any time. And here's to hoping I never will.”

White is silent for a while, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel as he blows smoke out the window. “A word to the wise, then: get out while you still can. Shit's easy when you don't have any priors but you get stuck doin' jobs like this for the rest of your life once you been in the business long enough. I mean, don't get me wrong, this kinda work suits me. But I wouldn't be able to get a real job at this point if I tried, and you're still young. You still got other options.”

Freddy's seen enough guys go through the system to know that White's telling the truth but there's something uncomfortable about being offered advice from one of the guys who's gonna go behind bars because of him, especially when Mr. White sounds so goddamn sincere about it. “Yeah, well, maybe I'm not wise.” Freddy says, a shrug accompanying the statement. He's not sure what else there is to say. He's here to do a job and he can't be talking like getting out of the business is something he wants, because Joe Cabot has to think he's in it to win it. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

“I'm just tellin' it like it is, kid. Take my advice or don't, there's really nothin' I can do about it.” Mr. White doesn't seem too bothered, maybe like he was expecting an answer like that. Maybe he'd been given the same advice at some point.

“So, what about you? You're sittin' over there asking me all these questions and givin' me nothin' in return, man.”

“Ah, well, I thought the answers would be pretty obvious. I've been doin' this shit longer than I can remember, and I sure as hell did my fair share of time in the slammer. But it's a risk that comes with the job and I'd take this over working in fuckin' retail any day.”

Freddy laughs, finding that he actually kind of understands where this guy's coming from. A warning bell goes off in his head—he knows what happens when undercovers get too sympathetic, they fuck up and make mistakes and, in most cases, end up in a ditch somewhere with their brains blown out—but he shoves the thought aside because he can't let himself start thinking shit like that. Thoughts like that are an unnecessary distraction.

“I'm fuckin' starving, man, let's go get something to eat.”

 

**

 

The burger joint they stop at advertises half-priced pie on Tuesdays and unlimited refills, but Freddy can't find it in himself to care about anything other than the blissful chill of the air conditioning as they step inside. They order at the counter and find a booth by a window, far enough from the other restaurant patrons that they can speak freely without the risk of being overheard by some Christian suburban mother who'd turn them in to the cops based off of speculation alone. Freddy watches the traffic go by on the street outside, taking a long sip of Coke before letting his gaze slide over to Mr. White.

Sitting directly across from the guy feels strange, like maybe they're on level footing, eating together as friends, but Freddy feels like he's at a disadvantage because he has so goddamn much to hide. It's not easy to look White in the eyes, knowing he's gonna be the reason the man gets carted off to prison. Like, a simple ' _hey, sorry, it's nothin' personal_ , man' isn't gonna cut it on this one. Most of these guys really aren't the heartless bastards he shouldn't have been expecting in the first place, and a couple of them are downright _charming_ , which makes Freddy's job of getting in good with them easier but makes it harder not to get attached.

Mr. White, in particular, is a charming fuckin' bastard, and it sure doesn't help that he's exactly the type of guy Freddy fantasizes about at night. It's not the most convenient situation for him to be in.

As if sensing Freddy's thoughts, White asks, “So, your old lady know about the type of work you do?”

“My what?” Freddy asks before he can fully process the question, realizing his slip up as soon as the words leave his mouth. His fuckin' wedding ring—Tommy Wright's fictional wife which he really should have been expecting to talk about at some point. He scrambles to amend his statement, remembering specifically telling Holdaway that it was a shitty idea to begin with. “Oh, uh, she only has a vague idea about it. Y'know, nothin' specific.” It's enough to remind him that Mr. White is absolutely off limits because it would be blowing _at least_ one part of his cover.

Freddy's thankful when the young man comes by with their burgers, hoping it'll be enough to deter any further discussion about his fictional wife. At least for now, anyway. He'll be more prepared next time around.

 

**

 

Freddy hides everything incriminating the second he gets home, just in case he has to invite one of these guys into his apartment. After that, he rehearses every minute detail of his cover until he can answer anything as Mr. Orange, determined not to be caught off his guard again.

The thing is, though, nobody else on the crew seems to give much of a shit about his marital status—or anything else about him, either. Their conversations consist of shallow chatter and amusing but vague anecdotes that only scratch the surface of what might be useful information.

So Freddy finds himself rehearsing details for the sake of a single person, memorizing his back story in the context of possible conversations with Mr. White. He's prepared for anything.

And if he has one or two dreams that involve White in some not-so-PG13 situations, well. Whatever.

 

**

 

“You want another drink, kid?” Mr. White asks, speaking under the joke Mr. Pink's telling and leaning in.

Freddy keeps his breathing even and his thoughts cool, politely declining because he's already a bit too tipsy to do responsible undercover work. Though, he's almost tempted to say that his irresponsible undercover work isn't too shabby because he's doing a bang up job of acting comfortable around these guys, like he's one of them. “No thanks,” he says before he looks over, but then he turns his head and sees that White is close. Like, really close. And then he finds himself saying, “Actually, yeah. I'll take whatever you're havin'.” Which might be toeing the line between irresponsible and idiotic but he's feeling bold.

White smiles, one of the final nails in Freddy's metaphorical coffin because he's fallin' for this guy and he's fallin' fast.

Freddy tunes back into the conversation going on at the table, trying to glean some information from the story Brown's telling about some heist he'd heard about that got seriously fucked up. But there's not much to be learned. Half the details sound highly exaggerated, and in the long run Brown is gonna be the least of his worries. Freddy's got bigger fish to fry. Holdaway had been really specific about their priority—Joe Cabot, boss of bosses—and maybe a few of the guys closest to him, but the rest of 'em aren't such a big deal.

Freddy laughs when everyone else does, subtly glancing back to the bar and staring a little self-indulgently at Mr. White's ass. He's tipsy, warmth thrumming beneath his skin and making him feel sort of giddy, and for a few short moments he lets his mind wander to places it shouldn't, heart stuttering as White turns and catches him staring. It doesn't matter the he snaps his eyes back to the table, the guy _noticed_ , and the mortification doesn't quite have time to set in before White's back with a drink in each hand.

Freddy mutters a quick thanks as he's handed a drink but he can't bring himself to make eye contact, trying to act like he's engrossed in what Mr. Pink is saying, though he hadn't actually followed the subject change. Mr. White rests an arm along the back of his chair, casually but with purpose and Freddy immediately feels the need to escape. If he doesn't leave, he knows he's gonna do something stupid that could put his cover at risk and he can't let that happen.

His drink disappears as he thinks about his options, surprised as he brings the glass to his lips only to find it empty. White's arm hasn't moved and there's a line of warmth where they're touching, a prickling heat that's driving Freddy slowly insane. He clears his throat, saying something he's not sure is audible as he gets unsteadily to his feet and excuses himself to the restroom.

The music dies down to a low thrum as the door swings closed behind him, making his head feel just a little bit clearer. His shoes echo on the tiles as he moves toward the sink, pressing his hands against the cool porcelain surface of it before ducking his head down to splash some cold water on his face. He can only imagine what Holdaway would be telling him right now. Not a single mention of any of this can ever be put into a report, that much is for sure.

Freddy doesn't hear the door open, and he nearly jumps when a voice pipes up from behind him.

“You alright there, kid?”

His stomach swirls as he turns, feeling the world tilt a little bit because of the alcohol. He braces his hands behind him, gripping the edge of the sink so he doesn't lose his balance. “What? Yeah, I'm good.”

White frowns. He shoves himself off the wall he's leaning against, uncrossing his arms with a serious look. “You sure about that?”

The question isn't spoken loud enough to echo around the small room but it seems incredibly loud to Freddy anyway.He swallows hard. Honestly? He's not quite sure, that's sorta what he's trying to figure out here. He _should_ assure White that he's fine—tell him nothin's wrong and then skedaddle home before he can make any bad decisions.

Instead, he shrugs. “I dunno, man.”

Mr. White takes a few steps closer, not quite invading Freddy's personal space but verging on it. “You want me to call you a cab home?” His voice is quiet, just a notch above a whisper and in a tone that makes Freddy's breath stutter.

“You don't gotta do that, man, I just...I don't drink much, y'know. Gotta get my head on straight.”

White doesn't look entirely convinced, but he smiles a little bit reassuringly. “Then you're in no state to drive anyway. Come on, I'll call you cab and you can go home and sleep it off.”

Freddy doesn't immediately move. His grip on the edge of the sink behind him tightens, and it almost feels like the only thing keeping him upright. He's not as macho as he bargained for and he's definitely not capable of drinking _anyone_ under the table, so this whole night was a bad move on his part. But he'll know better next time.

“You're a good guy, you know that?” He asks after a moment, following the statement with a heavy breath to settle his uneasy stomach.

“Who, me?” White asks with a scoff. “I think you've got me confused with somebody else.”

“Nah, I mean it, man. You're like...a good fuckin' guy. Like, for a career criminal.” Freddy knows he should stop talking, but something spurs him on. Maybe it's the look in White's eyes or maybe it's the fact that he's too distracted by the effort it's taking him to remain upright to really think about what he's saying as it leaves his mouth. “I don't think I've ever met a guy like you.”

White steps forward, and this time he really is encroaching on Freddy's personal space, something almost predatory in his eyes. His breath smells like whiskey and cigarettes, drawing Freddy's eyes down to his lips before he has a chance to stop himself. White chuckles. “Shouldn't you be getting home to your wife soon, anyway?” His eyes search Freddy's, looking for answers to questions he's not even asking.

A silence stretches between them, White's gaze unwavering. Freddy knows that this is it. The Moment. Even while drunk, it's obvious what Mr. White is _really_ asking and Freddy's in no position to answer responsibly, frozen in place with the guy's gaze locked with his own. He feels like a deer in the headlights. “What's it to you, man?”

“Maybe I'm just askin'.”

Freddy can feel his heart in his throat. He doesn't want to be in this situation but there's a thrill running up his spine that makes him feel drunk in an entirely different way. He's on the verge of breaking some serious rules here, balancing on the precipice of responsibility and quickly losing his bearings. “I uh. I don't got a wife.” He admits, uncertainty crawling all over him. The piece of his back story falls away, leaving a thread that White could easily pull to unravel Freddy's entire cover.

But the man just smiles, knowing and dangerous. “I figured as much.” He says, bringing his hand up to move Freddy's hair from his face. “How about we go call you that cab?”

Freddy's not sure what he'd been expecting, but he knows it wasn't that. He opens his mouth to ask something, but White stops him.

“We've got time to talk about other stuff later. For now, let's get you home.”

Freddy recognizes White's gesture for what it is—a chance for him to sober up and get his head together before initiating anything too serious. White's giving him a chance to change his mind, and it's almost too much to handle.

“Shit, man.” Freddy mutters, looking down at the floor because he can't stand looking at White's face knowing that this is all one big farce on his part. Guilt gnaws at him, a weight that settles heavily in the pit of his stomach and makes him feel a little sick. The job would be so simple if White turned out to be some lowlife scumbag who truly deserved to go to prison but here he is, acting like a gentleman and giving Freddy plenty of breathing room to make up his mind.

It's more than he feels he deserves.

 

**

 

There's a single stream of sunlight pouring in through the tiny bathroom window, shining directly onto Freddy's face where he's sprawled across the tile floor. He groans, realizing his hangover the second he opens his eyes. A long few seconds pass where he doesn't move. He can hear the dripping of the faucet, the traffic outside, but none of it helps the sharp pounding in his head.

It takes him a while to work up the energy to shove himself off the floor, fighting off a wave of nausea as he finally gets to his feet and stumbles over to the sink.

By the time he feels a little bit more human, most of the morning has passed him by and he doesn't even feel that much better. He's been trying not to think about the previous night—he just knows if he thinks about it he's going to emerge with a mile-long list of regrets and mistakes, so he puts it off. And he's doing a pretty good job of it until he slips up and catches himself thinking about Mr. White, opening the floodgates. The entire night comes back to him in vivid detail and _fuck_ , his reaction shouldn't be to become even more enamored with the guy but he is.

Mr. White's a handsome guy who treats him nice, and who might even be a little interested in him, too, and it's been so long since Freddy's met someone like that. It's a pretty fucked up situation, but he's already justifying it to himself which means he's in too deep. There's nothing left for him to do but hold his breath, brace himself, and jump in.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself, kid.”

Freddy falls into step beside White, glancing behind them to make sure they're out of earshot of the rest of the crew. The meeting at the warehouse had been brief, abruptly ending when Joe was called away on business, and the rest of the guys are loitering around the front entrance smoking cigarettes. If they think it's weird that Freddy and White are going off on their own, they keep their mouths shut and Freddy is grateful for it. “So, uh, you wanna get some lunch or somethin'?” He asks casually, palms sweating inside his pockets as gravel crunches beneath his shoes.

White gives him an assessing look, maybe like he's trying to determine a motive or something, and their elbows brush together as he finally smiles. “You got anything specific in mind?”

Freddy shrugs, elbow nudging the older man just slightly in the process. “Nah. I was sorta hopin' to enjoy the company more than the food anyhow.”

White chuckles as he unlocks his car, leaning against the door as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. “There's a diner a couple blocks away from the motel I'm stayin' at that makes some pretty decent shakes.” He suggests, putting a cigarette between his lips and holding the pack out.

Freddy hesitates. It takes him a moment to think past the mention of White's motel—a statement like that could have any fuckin' number of implications, or maybe none at all, Maybe Freddy's just looking too far into it. His fingers shake only slightly as he finally reaches up to take a cigarette. “You gonna buy me a shake, Mr. White?” He asks, as suggestive as he can manage. He's not exactly practiced in flirting with men, but their time frame doesn't allow for beating around the bush.

White flips his lighter open, snapping his fingers against the thumb wheel a few times before it lights. “You want me to buy you a shake, kid? I can do that.” He says with a grin, lighting his own cigarette before holding the flame out to Freddy, who steadies it with a hand wrapped around White's wrist.

White shuts the lighter with a click but Freddy doesn't immediately remove his hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth for a few seconds before finally pulling back to round the car.

 

**

 

Freddy traces a fingertip over the water droplets that cling to the surface of his nearly-empty glass, finishing off the last few sips of his chocolate shake with his knee brushing against White's underneath the table. It's a subconscious thing, at first, but then White shifts and their knees are pressing just _that_ much closer, and heat spreads through Freddy's chest as it becomes clear that the guy has no intention of moving away.

White takes a fry from the basket that sits on the table between them, catching Freddy's eye with the movement. He winks, gazing across the table with an adoring look and a sweet smile. “So, Mr. Orange. You enjoy your lunch?” He asks, putting the fry in his mouth and wiping his fingers on a napkin.

“I did. And you know, the company wasn't too bad, either.” Freddy shrugs casually but the grin on his face betrays how he actually feels, lighting up his expression before he can even think to suppress it. He nudges White's leg with his own, gentle but obviously intentional, testing out the waters a bit and trying to determine what the boundaries are here. He is—terrifyingly—too ready to go as far as the older man wants, just waiting for any indication that the feeling it mutual.

White takes a sip of his soda, corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles at Freddy. Smiles like Freddy's the best goddamn thing in the world, like he can't believe the kid's sitting across from. “You want me to drive you home after I pay the check?” He asks quietly, thumb fidgeting with the plastic lid of his cup, mindlessly going along with the beat of the music emanating from a jukebox in the corner.

“Is that my only option?” Freddy asks.

“Why, you got any other ideas?”

He swallows hard, chickening out at the last minute and instead of saying something like ' _let's head back to your motel_ ' the words that come out of his mouth are “I don't wanna get in your way if you got plans for the afternoon, man.”

Mr. White's face is serious as he sets his cup back on the table, leaning forward onto his elbows. “And what if I ain't got any plans?”

“Well, you could take me back to that motel you mentioned earlier.” Freddy says uncertainly, heart is in his throat. He doesn't look away from White's eyes but he's tempted to, almost expecting to be turned down.

But the guy just smiles. “That's the best fuckin' idea I've ever heard.” He says. He nudges Freddy's leg once more with his knee before moving to stand up. “Sit tight, I'll go pay.”

 

**

 

The drive is short and White cuts the engine as he pulls up to the motel, leveling Freddy with a serious look. “I don't want you to feel obligated to do anything you don't wanna do, alright kid? You'll tell me if somethin' makes you uncomfortable?”

The words are quiet but Freddy feels physically impacted by them, nodding because he doesn't think he'd be able to answer without his voice cracking. Mr. White is so unbelievably respectful, far more considerate than any of the other men he'd ever been with, and for a few brief moments he has second thoughts. He could still put a stop to this. There's a real fondness in White's eyes, but Freddy knows that it's not _him_ the guy likes. It's Mr. Orange. The guy who holds up poker games and sells weed to his rinky dink pothead friends.

Chances are, if White knew the _real_ Freddy Newendyke, he'd kill him on the spot.

But Freddy's too far gone already. It's been a long time since he's had that kinda look directed at him, like he's somethin' really special, and even though it's under false pretenses he can't bring himself to give it up yet.

White smiles as he flicks his cigarette butt out the window. “Good boy.”

 

The room is cool and Freddy's eyes travel around, taking in the little details—the shirts draped across the back of the couch, the ashtray on the bedside table that's threatening to overflow with cigarette butts. There's probably something incriminating lying about somewhere but he doesn't want to look that hard. Instead he shrugs out of his jacket, tossing it over the arm of the couch before turning toward Mr. White.

The older man locks the door, tossing his keys onto the bedside table with a slow, sweeping look at Freddy. “C'mere.” He says, voice a little harsh as he crooks a finger to motion the kid over. Freddy doesn't need much convincing. White smiles, wrapping his arms around Freddy's waist with slow but deliberate movements, smoothing his hands across Freddy's ribs. “Goddamn, you are such a beautiful boy.”

Freddy exhales heavily, letting himself be pulled closer until they're chest to chest, positive that White's gonna be able to feel the beat of his heart through the layers of clothing that separate them. He only hesitates for a moment before putting his arms around the older man's neck, breathing him in with a flutter of eyelids. “Careful. A guy could get attached to someone who says shit like that.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing.”

Freddy's chuckle is dark. He's already more attached than he should be and it _is_ a bad thing, consequences pending. “Maybe I'm just warnin' you.”

“Is that somethin' I need a warning for? You gettin' attached to me?” White asks tenderly, eyes flickering down to Freddy's lips before making their way back up. He moves the hair out of Freddy's face, leaving his hand hovering just above the younger man's cheek. “Would you be opposed to me kissin' you?”

“I think I'd be offended if you didn't.”

A beat, and the White leans down to press a kiss to Freddy's mouth, one hand cradling Freddy's face while the other tightens in the fabric at his back. It's soft and devastatingly slow, nothing Freddy could have expected but everything he didn't know he needed. He makes a small, needy noise in the back of his throat, something he'd be embarrassed about if it were anyone else but White kissing him, and loses himself in the feeling of it all.

They stay like that for a few minutes, crowded close with slow, drawn out kisses and lingering touches. White doesn't push for any more than that and Freddy realizes, a bit slow on the uptake, that he's the one calling the shots here. He's in charge. White's gonna match his pace and isn't gonna push for any more than that.

He pulls back a few inches, smoothing his hands across the front of White's shirt as he gathers his wits. He's just about to speak, ask if White wants to move over to the bed, when the shrill ringing of the hotel phone breaks through the silence.

“Sorry, I gotta get that.” White apologizes quietly, pecking Freddy once more on the lips before moving across the room to the phone.

Freddy tries not to listen in but there's not much else to pay attention to, and by the time the man hangs up with an ' _alright, give me fifteen minutes_ ', he's expecting what comes next.

“That was Joe. I gotta go meet him.”

“It's cool, I can call myself a cab.” Freddy shrugs like it's no big deal, even though something inside of him is dreading the idea of going home to be alone with his thoughts. He's about to reach for his jacket when White stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“You don't gotta head out if you don't want to.” He says quietly, voice barely above a whisper as he pulls Freddy closer. He says it with his tone all wrapped up with hope like Freddy would be doing him a favor by staying. Freddy grapples with disbelief for a few long seconds because this guy shouldn't trust him this much. He's an undercover cop for fuck's sake, if he was actually here to do his job White would be screwed.

“You mean like...stay here?” Freddy asks finally, clarifying. Maybe he misheard. White's obviously a smart man, there's no way he could be so unsuspecting.

But the guy merely nods. “Yeah, if you want. I shouldn't be gone too long.” A hand in Freddy's hair, then a smile. “It's up to you, kid, but I wouldn't mind coming back to find you here. Either way, I gotta get goin'.”

Freddy swallows as White moves to step away, reaching a hand out to grab the man's sleeve. He doesn't say anything, just pulls White forward and kisses him hard, actions driven entirely by impulse, secretly satisfied when White moans low against his mouth. It's not as clean as their previous kisses, something far more heated, but Freddy pulls away before it can escalate any further than that. “So I guess I'll see you when you get back, then?” He asks after clearing his throat, running his fingers over White's chest with a dopey little smirk.

The smile he gets in return almost makes his heart stop, flooring him and making it nearly impossible to let the other man out of his reach, even for a second. White looks at Freddy like he can't really believe he's standing there, tucking a strand of displaced hair behind the kid's ear and pulling back. “Sure. You stay outta trouble, I won't be long.”

 

**

 

Freddy doesn't snoop.

He thinks about it a couple times, Holdaway's voice chiming in the back of his head that this is a golden opportunity that he probably won't ever get again, but just the thought of going through White's stuff sends guilt roiling through him, making his stomach twist up in knots.

Instead, he settles into the couch and flips through channels, smoking cigarettes until his pack is empty and tracing his fingers idly over the shirts draped over the back of the couch. He can't quite focus on any of the shows he's flipping past, doesn't even care, really. His mind is too occupied with thoughts of lips and fingers and the smell of Chesterfields, with thoughts of the way White kisses him like they were made for each other. It's that last part that really gets to him because he can't think of any other person who had ever kissed him like that, and he _loves_ it.

He also knows that it's going to be what hurts the most, in the end, when all of this comes to its inevitable and painful conclusion.

 

**

 

When White gets back he smiles as though he might not have been expecting Freddy to still be there, locking the door behind him before approaching the couch, tossing his keys onto the bedside table. “I hope I didn't take too long.”

“Nah, you barely even gave me a chance to miss you.” Freddy jokes, grinning as he moves around on the couch to make room for White. He takes a seat, their legs pressing together just slightly, and takes his cigarettes out of his pocket. Freddy holds his hand out. “I ran out. Mind if I bum one?”

White pulls out two cigarettes and places one of them between Freddy's lips, thumb reaching out to brush the kid's chin reverently as he pulls his hand back. “You smoke a lot of goddamn cigarettes, kid.” He comments, flicking his lighter open and lighting his own smoke before holding it out to Freddy. “These things'll kill you, y'know.”

“You're one to talk.”

“Hey, there's an entire list of things that could kill me, but cigarettes ain't very high up on it.” White says with a chuckle, taking a long puff as if to prove his point.

The words aren't very comforting. They only make Freddy think about the danger and the sheer uncertainty that comes hand in hand with being a career criminal. He turns so that his body is facing White and kicks his shoes off before pulling his knees up to his chest, taking a long, thoughtful drag of the Chesterfield. The taste makes him think of Mr. White. “I guess things are never really a sure thing in this line of work, huh?” He asks, more to himself than anything else. He can't articulate the thoughts tumbling around inside his brain but it bugs him that this is so easy for them—that they can so effortlessly fall into a downward spiral of whatever the hell it is that they're doing, with absolutely no thought for the future.

White seems to pick up on Freddy's inner turmoil. “Hey, what's on your mind?”

“Nothin'.” Freddy says with a shrug, word sounding unsure even as it leaves his mouth. “It's not important. It's just...I think it might have been easier if we'd met under different circumstances, y'know?” He swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, trying not to think about how goddamn unfair this is. “Like, you know, without all these rules and shit.”

White brings a hand up to rest on Freddy's shoulder, sympathy bleeding from his touch. “The rules are there to protect us.”

Freddy sighs, frustrated and a little tired as he considers his plan of action. “Yeah, I know.” He says, working his lower lip between his teeth, finding a spot on the far wall to stare at. It's not going to be long before Holdaway gets him the book of Milwaukee cons, the book that will undoubtedly contain all of White's information, and Freddy doesn't want to learn the guy's name from a mugshot. He just doesn't. He lets out a breath, finally looking from the wall to Mr. White's eyes. “I—you don't have to, okay? But I just...I want to know your name.” He pauses, heart in his throat as he adds, “And I'd like to tell you mine, too.”

White doesn't immediately say anything and Freddy's almost afraid that he pushed for too much, watching the man's face carefully as he contemplates the request. “It's not a good idea.” he starts, and Freddy opens his mouth to agree, tell him to forget he even asked, but White's hand stops him. “Let me finish. If I tell you my name, it stays between us. No slip ups around anyone else, no hints to Joe that we disobeyed him. I'd be putting a lot on the line for you, kid.”

Freddy swallows hard because it shouldn't be as easy as that. He feels like this guy should be able to see through him somehow, know that he's not who he says he is, and he feels like the biggest piece of shit because White is so willing to please him. He doesn't deserve it. “Look, you really don't have to, man. Just forget I said anything, okay?”

“Hey, it's no big deal.” White says, blowing a lungful of smoke to the side and bringing a hand up to play with Freddy's hair. At the last moment he almost changes his mind, hesitating, but Freddy leans into the touch before he can move away, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

“You don't gotta be afraid to touch me, y'know.” He whispers, catching White's eyes as he takes a drag of his cigarette. The game show is still droning on but it's nothing more than background noise, something to fill the otherwise nebulous quiet of the room, and Freddy's grateful for it. It gives him something else to listen to besides the beating of his heart.

“There's usually rules about not touching works of art.” White says, just as quietly as Freddy had spoken, tracing his thumb across the quickly reddening skin of the younger man's cheek.

It's cheesy, so cheesy, but Freddy loves it. Nobody's ever used a line like that on him and it takes him a good few moments to get the stupid grin off his face. White's eyes are warm as Freddy turns his head to catch the man's thumb against his lips, parting them only slightly and feeling immensely satisfied when White lets out a shuddering breath. “I'm a piece of work, maybe, but I dunno about art.” He says finally with a small laugh. His voice comes out a little raspy but he powers through it.

He can't remember the last time he'd felt so in over his head when it came to a guy.

High school, maybe, but that was a handful of years ago and this time he doesn't have raging hormones as an excuse. “Think you might wanna...come over to the bed with me an' kiss me some more?” He asks, a single notch above silent as he stares at White's lips with half-lidded eyes. He slides a hand onto the man's leg, fingertips just barely teasing the inside of his thigh, surprised by his own actions. He only lingers for a few beats before getting to his feet with a flirtatious sort of smirk, taking a few long, slow drags of the cigarette as he makes his way over to the bed. He puts it out in the ashtray before sliding onto the bed, keeping his feet firmly on the floor as he waits for White to join him.

The man stops in front of him to drop his cigarette butt into the ashtray and Freddy takes the opportunity to place his hands on his hips, hooking his index fingers into the guy's pockets and pulling him down onto the bed. For a short moment they just breath each other in, fingers tangled in clothing, White's knees on either side of Freddy's legs.

It feels perfect.

In his entire life, Freddy has never felt more like he's right where he's supposed to be, like he was made to be with Mr. White and the pieces are just falling naturally into place. The concept of soulmates is ridiculous but for just a brief, uncertain moment Freddy considers it. Considers that maybe he's never gonna get this feeling with any other person because he's never felt it with anyone else.

He stops that train of thought before it can get too far. There's no use in thinking about shit that, in the long run, is absolutely inconsequential. Regardless of how much Freddy wants to be with this guy, it doesn't change the fact that Freddy's a cop and White's a thief, that's just the hand they've been dealt. It's just the way things are. But Freddy doesn't want to think about it too hard, distracting himself by pressing an open-mouthed kiss to White's lips, running his palms up his sides, the curves of his neck, tangling fingers in the man's hair with a soft whimper.

It's good, _so_ good, and Freddy's almost embarrassed by the fact that he's getting hard in his jeans already. He tries not to but his hips roll forward of their own accord and White chuckles low in his throat.

“Tell me what you want, kid.”

Freddy laughs a bit shyly, letting his head fall back against the mattress. “I dunno,” he mutters, hand sneaking down the front of White's shirt to where the fabric is tucked into his Levi's. “There's a lot of things I want.”

White hums, fingertips tracing Freddy's face. “Like what?” He asks, even as his hand tugs at the hem of the kid's shirt, slow and teasing. “Tell me and I'll be happy to oblige.”

Freddy's breath leaves him in a rush. “I want you to fuck me.” He says, barely even audible to his own ears. White hears him, though, if the shaky breath the man takes is any indication, eyes dark as he searches Freddy's eyes.

He swallows, running a hand through dirty blonde hair. “You are gorgeous, you know that?” He says quietly, slipping a hand under Freddy's shirt and tracing his ribs, pushing the fabric up as he goes. “You wanna take this off?”

Freddy nods, leaning up just enough to pull his shirt off. He tosses it off the bed before falling back, bouncing a little as he lands on the sheets. His hands move to White's belt. “You want me to blow you?” He asks, fingers slowly working at the buckle. His voice sounds wrecked. God, he's so fucked.

White looks a little awestruck as Freddy pushes him back with hands on his shoulders, tugging his shirt up and off as he reverses their positions. Freddy's a little bit awestruck himself because this is pretty foreign territory for him. Sharing long glances, gentle touches. It's a lot different than any of the one night stands Freddy's had in years, few as they may have been.

This is something else entirely.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

Freddy wakes up slowly and it takes him a moment to remember why he's not in his own bed. He stretches, feeling the pull of overworked muscles and the brush of bare skin underneath the sheets. It's only when he opens his eyes and sees that it's dark outside that the situation really hits him and he shifts so he can catch a glimpse of the clock on the bedside table. It's late. Freddy should be getting home.

He lets his gaze slide over to the man sleeping next to him and he feels his face get hot as he thinks about the way White had touched him. The way White had fucked him. God, Freddy's in over his head here. He admires the planes of White's face with a goofy little smile and a quiet, giddy laugh to himself. Who would have imagined that the best part of this job would be the sex?

He'd feel pretty shitty about sneaking out in the middle of the night so he nudges White with an elbow, telling himself to stop smiling like an idiot. He doesn't really want to leave at all but he should. He has to meet Holdaway in the morning. A responsible undercover, who would never have gotten themselves in this situation in the first place, would catch a cab home and play it like a professional.

But Freddy's finding it pretty fucking hard to be a responsible undercover around White.

He nudges the older man again. “Hey, White.”

“Mmm. What time is it?”

“Almost ten. Listen, do you want me to get outta here, man?” Freddy's voice is raspy and he can still taste White on his tongue, which is more than a little distracting.

“You could stay.” White says as he smooths a hand over Freddy's shoulder, pulling him closer. “It's up to you, but I don't wanna see you go.”

“You'll need to drop me off at my place in the morning. I got some shit to take care of.”

“I can do that.”

Freddy smiles and lets himself melt closer to White, trying not to think about how close he's going to be cutting it. The weight of an arm holding him close makes it a little easier to put off thinking about unpleasant details but the guilt is always there in the back of his mind. The knowledge that he's lying to White. He presses a kiss to the man's chest and follows it with a small sigh, allowing himself to be content. “You wanna order some Chinese food or somethin'?”

“You hungry, kid?” Freddy hums. “Chinese food sounds great.” White says with a smile before moving to sit up. The sheets covering his lap slip a bit lower as he leans away to grab the phone and Freddy lets his eyes linger, watching as White calls in their order, giving his input when necessary. He deliberately doesn't think about how much he loves this, or how short their time together really is.

“It'll be about half an hour.” White says after hanging up the phone, lighting up a cigarette. He takes an easy drag and holds it out to Freddy, tossing his lighter on the bedside table.

“We should probably put some clothes on.” Freddy muses. He blows a couple shitty smoke rings, smiling too much to get it just right. His eyes wander down White's chest but they don't get too far because the older man leans over to kiss him, threading a hand into his hair.

“If you insist.”

"Don't worry, we can take 'em off again later."

 

**

 

White pulls out a joint when they're sitting on the couch, half-empty takeout containers sitting on the coffee table in front of them, and Freddy can't think of any reason to say no. If Holdaway didn't like it then maybe he shouldn't have written the commode story for Freddy's cover. As far as White knows, he's a practiced stoner who knows when to appreciate free weed.

And he wants to.

White makes him want to break the rules, like he really could be one of these guys. He knows he's probably getting too into the role of Mr. Orange but he feels so _alive_ and it's good. He's _happy_. He grins as he watches White light the end of the joint and it reminds him of college—of trying not to get caught smoking in the dorms. The element of danger is the same, only now the stakes are so much higher.

There's a black and white western playing quietly on the TV as they pass the joint back and forth, fingers brushing in a way that's probably more than a little intentional. Freddy really wouldn't mind living a live like this, a life like Mr. Orange's. He's almost envious. There's a freedom that comes with this line of work and he already craves more of the feeling. His mind wanders as he passes the joint back to White and there are alarm bells blaring in some small part of his head that tell him what a dangerous path he's treading. Bad shit happens to undercovers that get this deep into a job.

“What're you gonna do after the job?” He asks with a careful exhale, and he doesn't miss the way White's eyes linger on his lips.

“I figure I'll lay low for a while. Maybe take a vacation, someplace warm.” White says just before sealing his lips around the end of the joint.

The room is silent save for Gary Cooper's drawl coming from the television screen but Freddy doesn't really hear it. He already feels dazed, THC creeping through his veins slow and thick. “I hear Mexico is pretty warm.” He muses.

“Would you wanna go there?”

“What, who said anything about me?”

“Well? Would you? You could stick with me for a while, you know. .”

Freddy feels his stomach swoop. “What like, _together_? Like a couple or somethin'?”

“Not necessarily. You would benefit from having a partner who knows what he's doing, you'll gain a reputation. It doesn't have to be anything but professional.” White sounds so sincere about it and it's such an appealing offer.

“I dunno I kinda have this uh...obligation after this job. I mean yeah, I would totally wanna go to Mexico with you but I'm just—I can't, y'know?” Freddy can imagine it. Going to Mexico with White, pockets full of cash. He has such a vivid image of it in his head but he still knows that it's impossible. He'd never get away with it. He's a cop, and that's not going to magically change just because he has the hots for White. “I would want that, though. A lot.”

 

**

 

“So, you got anything new to tell me?”

Freddy shrugs casually as he takes a sip of his soda. He's been thinking about this since White dropped him off at his apartment, carefully mapping out what he can and can't tell Holdaway. “Plan's still the same. Joe doesn't suspect anything but he's not very forthcoming with information, either, I don't think he fully trusts me. Not like he does with his regulars, anyway.”

“And what about Cabot's guy? What's his name, Mr. White? Fella from Milwaukee.”

Freddy keeps his expression neutral but he's terrified that the truth is gonna show on his face. “What about 'im?”

Holdaway brings his drink to his mouth, raising an eyebrow at Freddy. “He say much? Give you anything to work with?”

“No,” Freddy says maybe too quickly. He feels like Holdaway's gonna be able to tell just by looking at him that his cover's been pretty fuckin' compromised, but there's no way the guy could know. Truthfully, undercovers had done a lot worse for the sake of a job but this is different. Freddy's emotionally involved. He rushes to amend his statement. “Nah, I mean, Cabot has all these rules, y'know? We're not really supposed to talk to each other.”

Holdaway finishes his burger, wiping his hands on a napkin before reaching beside him. He sets a large book on the table, sliding it to the center with a smirk at Freddy. “Well maybe this'll help you out a little bit. This...Mr. White should be in here somewhere. Look through it, figure out who he is. You're doin' good work Newendyke, keep it up.”

Freddy stares at the book with a looming sense of dread. He'd been expecting this, sure, but a part of him was hoping Holdaway would never get around to it. It's not like it'll be hard to get everyone's names once the heist is over with and they're all booked. “Yeah. I'll try my best, man.” He says after a beat. “I'll look at this as soon as I can.”

It's not a lie, not necessarily. Even though Freddy doesn't so much as touch it once he's back home with the book on his table. It's a painful reminder of why he's here, of who White really is. He stares at it for a long time, trying to puzzle out his options and keep the fear at bay.

He avoids it for almost a week.

The book migrates from his table to the floor to the shelf in his closet but even out of sight it's a persistent thought in the back of Freddy's mind, and time is getting short. It doesn't make things any easier, either, because he's caught in a downward spiral that draws ever nearer to the end, and with every moment he spends with White he falls a little further.

 

**

 

The book is still in his closet when he wakes up on the morning of the heist, in White's motel room pressed close to the man himself, with only hours left to go. He never even looked at it, and it's not going to make a single difference because this is it, anyway. The End. He can't keep putting off the inevitable. He spends a few quiet minutes deep in thought, imagining running away together and waking up like this every morning, escaping away to Mexico. White treats him so good and he wishes so goddamn much that he didn't have to give it all up.

He inhales deeply, savoring the feeling of waking up next to someone. The feeling of skin touching skin and warmth and the sunlight just barely peeking through the curtains. He wants to hold on to at least some part of this while the rest is slipping from his fingers. He can feel the lump forming in his throat, a feeling of loss already seeping into his bones, and he carefully pulls out of Larry's arms and gets to his feet, untangling himself from the bedsheets with an uneasy restlessness.

The tile in the bathroom is cold against his bare feet and he shuts the door behind him quietly, padding over to the small sink and frowning at his reflection in the mirror. He got himself into this mess and he's going to have to deal with the consequences, there's no getting out of the situation.

The time to get out was before he got involved with White. Now he just has to face it.

White is awake when Freddy finally does come out of the bathroom, pack of cigarettes and a lighter sitting on the bed next to him. “Mornin'.” Freddy says, ignoring the lump in his throat as he crawls back into bed and lights up a cigarette.

“You been up long?” White asks, pulling Freddy close and pressing a kiss to his hair.

“Nah. Just for a little while.”

“Are you nervous?”

Freddy bites his lip and shrugs as best he can. Nervous isn't really the word for it but it's close enough, the semantics don't really matter. White can read him too well. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well don't worry about it, kiddo. I'm gonna take care of you. It'll be over sooner than you know it, you're gonna do fine.”

Freddy nods but there's so much that White doesn't know. It's easy to talk so confidently when he has no idea what going through with this job will entail. “How much time do we have before we have to head out?” Freddy asks.

“Little under an hour.” White says, craning his neck to get a look at the clock. It's not a lot of time at all—especially when these are probably their final few moments together—but Freddy'd never have enough time with White, anyway.

He barely hesitates before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to White's lips, pouring everything he's got into it and trying so goddamn hard not to cry. Their cigarettes end up forgotten in the ashtray as White eases him back on the mattress and he savors every little whisper, every little caress, storing them away in a file in his head so he'll remember, even after he's lost this. “I want you to fuck me,” he pleads, and he doesn't care how desperate he sounds. He _is_ desperate. This is his last chance to be with White and he's not gonna waste it.

It's hurried and frantic but White is still so gentle, so goddamn _caring_ , unraveling Freddy piece by piece with his hands and fucking him like he loves him. Freddy wants to say “ _I love you_ ,” or something damn near it, but the words are stuck in his throat. All can manage to do is cling desperately to White as he's driven over the edge, and it's probably for the best.

They're almost late. Everyone else is already there, flashing not so subtle smirks in their direction as they take their seats. Or maybe it's just in Freddy's head. But it doesn't matter either way because this is it.

 

**

 

Freddy knows he's going to die. There's no doubt about in his mind, he's already lost too much blood. He's floating in a state just above unconsciousness when Larry finally gets back with Eddie and Pink, and it takes everything he's got in him to lie through his teeth to Nice Guy. Eddie doesn't give a fuck about the cop but it's not too much of a stretch to think that Blonde would pull a burn, the guy was a psycho. He probably would have killed Freddy too, if he'd had the chance.

But Eddie doesn't buy it, and then Joe shows up and Freddy loses all control of the situation. Accusations, gunshots, it all goes by too fast for him to process and then Larry's bleeding on the floor right next to him. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, and he hates White for trusting him so much.

“I'm sorry, kid. Looks like we're gonna do a little time.”

Freddy can feel his heart breaking, even through the chilling numbness from the blood loss and he reaches for Larry even as the truth spills from his lips. “I'm a cop. Larry, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I'm a cop.” It's hard to get the words out but he needs to say it, and once he starts he can't stop. The sound wrenched from Larry's mouth at the confession almost breaks him, makes him feel like the shittiest person ever, but he never releases his grip on Larry's arms.

When he hears the click of a gun being cocked he's almost glad. He can hear the sirens getting closer and the kiss of metal against his cheek is cold, but it's also comforting. He leans into it, braces himself for the moment when Larry's finger tightens around the trigger. 

Maybe he should, but Freddy doesn't regret any of it. He'd do it all again if he had to, just as long as it meant he wouldn't lose this time with Larry. The cops that storm into the warehouse are too late to do anything and Freddy shuts his eyes, listens to the shouting for a few brief seconds before the shot rings out.

When it came to a man like Larry, Freddy Newendyke never stood a chance.

 

**Author's Note:**

> There aren't enough creamsicle fics in the world and I'm gonna try to do my part to fix that. 
> 
> Sorry if the characterization's a bit off, I'm still trying to figure out how to write in their voices and I will endeavor to do better :)
> 
> If you wanna talk creamsicle (or really anything else) come find me on Tumblr as buscemiis!


End file.
